Page 14 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
"We're not being thoroughly improper," Catherine protested, though she took the glass. "We're simply... bending the rules slightly."
"Is that what we're doing?" He moved closer, not quite improperly close, but close enough that she could smell him: rain and sandalwood and something uniquely masculine. "Tell me, Catherine, may I call you Catherine? What other rules are you planning to bend tonight?"
"That's rather presumptuous."
"But not inaccurate?"
She took a sip of brandy to avoid answering. It burned pleasantly down her throat, warming her from the inside out. "Tell me something, James. What are you really running toward?"
He was quiet for a long moment, staring into his glass. "My father is dying."
The words were flat, emotionless, but Catherine saw the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tightened on the glass.
"I'm sorry," she said softly.
"Don't be. We weren't close. Haven't been for years." He took a long swallow of brandy. "But duty calls, as it always does. The prodigal son must return home."
"You've been away long?"
"Six years. Military service, then... other pursuits. I swore I'd never go back."
"What changed?"
"Nothing. Everything." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "He's dying, and suddenly all my anger seems... small. Petty. He was a difficult man, cold, demanding. Nothing was ever good enough. But he was still my father."
Catherine moved closer, drawn by the pain in his voice. "My father died two years ago. It was sudden—his heart. I never got to say goodbye. Never got to tell him..." She trailed off.
"Tell him what?"
"That I understood. Why he worked so hard, why he was gone so often. He was trying to secure our future, even if it meant missing our present."
"And now your mother wants to secure your future with Sir Reginald and his butterfly collection?"
Despite the weight of the conversation, Catherine laughed. "Precisely. And she had convinced father as well despite the fact that he had no patience for men who talked more than they acted."
"Whereas you have no patience for men who steal your rooms at inns?"
"You didn't steal it. We're sharing, remember?"
"How could I forget?" His voice had dropped, become something darker, richer. "Every sound you make carries through these walls. Do you know what torture it was, listening to you prepare for bed, knowing you were just there, just beyond that door?"
Catherine's breath caught. "James..."
"Tell me you didn't think about it too. Tell me you didn't wonder what would happen if that door wasn't locked."
"We can't..."
"Can't we?" He set down his glass, moved closer still. Not touching, not yet, but she could feel the heat radiating from his body. "We're strangers in a storm. Tomorrow we'll part ways, never to meet again. Tonight... tonight we could be anyone we choose."
"And who do you choose to be?"
"Honest," he said simply. "For once in my life, completely honest. No titles, no expectations, no duty. Just a man who finds you absolutely fascinating."
"You don't know me."
"Don't I?" His hand came up, not quite touching her face, hovering just close enough that she could feel the warmth. "I know you're brave enough to flee an unwanted marriage. Strong enough to travel alone except for a maid. Witty enough to match me verbal blow for blow. Beautiful enough to make me forget every rule I've ever lived by."
"James..." His name came out as barely a whisper.
